


Soft Silk; Rough Denim

by orphan_account



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Cowgirl Position, Daddy Kink, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gratuitous Smut, Oral Sex, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23048263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The prim and proper girls are always freaks.
Relationships: Jack | Whiskey/Reader
Kudos: 70





	Soft Silk; Rough Denim

Home has never felt less like home as primped and pretty it’s become in preparation for the annual Statesman Gala. The ballroom is abuzz with servants scurrying to and fro, clothes and candles and cutlery in hand. You had sneaked a peek earlier, but they had only just put out the tables and chairs so there wasn’t much to deduce the theme of the year. 

No matter. Your mother had ultimately dragged you back upstairs when the time came to get ready, calling for Rose and Beatrice’s help in taming the wild and frenzied mess you always are. Following a quick shower, they sit you down with a brush and blowdryer in hand, styling your hair in such a way so as to be appropriate for in your father’s image. 

Next comes the makeup, of which you are particularly excited for if only to pretend to be a princess for a night. Cheeks are powdered with blush, lips painted nude, eyelids colored in a beautiful mix of brown and pink and topped with a shine of metallic. 

Beatrice smiles at you in your vanity mirror, complimenting, “Beautiful, darling. You’ll have many heads turning, I’m sure of it.”

Behind her walks Rose holding your baby pink dress by the hanger, freshly steamed and immaculate. A halter strap that teases just the proper amount of cleavage under the scrutiny of your parents’ legacy, it tightens just under your breasts before billowing down in silk waves to the floor with a tasteful slit in the side. Nude heels with an open toe are the choice of shoe and click satisfyingly on the marble floors as you make your way to the grand staircase. 

Guests will just be arriving through the foyer to be greeted and directed to the ballroom where you shall make your entrance dramatic and, admittedly, terribly ostentatious. As an operative under the guise of codenames and pseudonyms, you have quite the appetite for extravagance and flamboyance at the best of times. 

Although, it’s most likely a product of your lavish upbringing. You were born under old money; everything you’ve inherited has been inherited through generations of wealth and status. Well, save for one Stetson-wearing, bow-tie clad exception. Only God knows where your taste in brazen men came from. 

Jack Daniels’ coffee-colored eyes flicker to your seraphic form gliding down the stairs, white fingernails trailing along the railing, your dress swishing about your legs. Underneath the thick mustache, his smile is radiant and fulfilling. 

“Agent Rosé,” he greets, holding out his out for you to place yours. Always the gentleman and charmer.

His grip is light but firm as he helps you down the final step. “Agent Whiskey.” He doesn’t let go, and you’re not entirely sure you want him to. 

He’s donned in his typical getup, but stately and with the smallest amount of flare appropriate for the setting. Cowboy boots, cleaned and polished, dark denim jeans (Kentuckians very much adore their denim), a simple white button-up underneath a tan suit jacket—nearly perfectly matching you, how coincidental. 

“You look mighty beautiful tonight.” Taking your hand, he places it into the crook of his elbow and the two of you begin walking towards the event. “Save a dance for me, will you, darlin’?”

“I’ll save all the dances for you, Jack, don’t worry.” You watch his head turn out of your peripheral, an amused smile twitching at his plump lips. 

This ballroom had been built after your parents had bought this house, as did many other rooms. Spacely with gorgeous rafters and gold trim, three glass chandeliers hang in perfect symmetry from the tall ceiling to cast warm lighting on all the patrons. Hand-scraped maple wood flooring gives the room a dark yet homely feel.

Circular tables covered in white cloth and decorated with its own bouquet of Apple Blossom bouquets are placed about the room around the dance floor. Each place setting has a nametag paired with an origami swan napkin and a gift bag of chocolates, mini cocktails, and a crystal figurine of the Statesman logo. You’d had a hand in the latter.

Patsy Cline plays from the speakers at the stage set up at the end of the room where a DJ has stationed himself at the back. Her voice reverberates throughout the room, the light country lulling you to sway your head and hum the lyrics in your throat. 

“Sweetpea, come introduce yourself!” your mother shouts from a circle of her lady friends. 

You don’t wish to leave Jack’s side, but duty calls. “If I don’t mingle at least a little bit, my parents will give me an earful,” you tell him, pressing a delicate kiss to his cheek as an apology.

“That’s quite alright. I’ll find you later.” With those words, he gives you his most flattering wink that nearly has you swooning before making his leave. The implication in the last sentence sets your heart aflame. 

Time appears immeasurable as you make your way between groups and cliques, chatting with friends of your parents, catching up with coworkers, and listening intently to some whirlwind story of a retired agent and clapping politely once they finish. Manners are so boring when all you want to do is be alone with your favorite Whiskey, drinking up every last drop of him. 

You keep seeing him across the room, wanting to reach or call out until someone or others inevitably pulls you away. You have yet to dance with him and you plan to make good on your promise. Many suitors have asked for your hand (in dancing, not marriage; this isn’t the 19th century) and you’ve declined every single one. Your mother is bound to have a fit if you keep it up. 

You’re speaking with an old friend of the family, voice light and airy; smile forced and polite when someone taps your shoulder. Turning around, you’re infinitely relieved to find Jack’s handsome face smiling down at you.

“Dance with me.” Not a question, but an order and one you willingly obey.

Your hand finds his once again and you love how utterly small it looks in comparison. But such thoughts lead to more intrusive, more invasive ones that have your core throbbing. Images of those same hands pulling at your dress, bruising your hips, locking themselves around your throat. It heats your skin and you’re sure you must look awfully flushed by now, but such are the things that Jack does to you without him even knowing. 

The music is a sweet, slow, twangy tune from the 50s— a perfect song for your cowboy and you to dance to. Propriety is forgotten as you press yourself closer to him, chest-to-chest and your head resting along his broad shoulder. Your hands fit perfectly together, but it’s his other one that rests just on your hip that gives you goosebumps. 

“You are addicting,” he speaks after a moment, letting the words float in between you with conviction.

You smile, eyes shutting and nose breathing in the scent of him. “As are you. I haven’t been able to keep my mind off you all night.”

His voice drops an octave, his accent sending bolts of fire straight down inside of you. “I want you, Rosé. I want you to be mine and only mine.”

You bring your head up, eyes shining with mock innocence. “I’ve always been yours,  _ daddy _ .”

You’re in love with the way his eyes darken, the way his mouth slackens, the way his muscles tense beneath your hand. “Baby girl, daddy is gonna treat you so right tonight.”

The music ends and you notice yet another person motioning for your presence. You’ll have to find a way to leave unnoticed, nonchalantly so as not to raise questions. 

“I hope so,” you whisper, kissing his hand and making your way over with a plan formulating in your mind. 

You humor them, listening but not really listening, nodding along to uninteresting stories and anecdotes. It’s only to buy you time, to keep things subtle. 

“Look, there’s Agent Chardonnay. You should go talk to him.”

Chardonnay is a long way from your attention as you lock eyes with Jack from across the room, replying, “I don’t think daddy would like that.” Of course, your partner in conversation is unaware of which daddy you’re referring to. 

You excuse yourself with the claim that you desperately need the lady’s room before swiftly making your way out into the hallway. Thankfully, there’s nobody there for the moment and you wait in slight trepidation and excitement for Jack to follow you out. The second his form crosses the threshold, you grab onto his arm and lead him back into the foyer and up the stairs.

The two of you sprint with giggles and chuckles until you make it to your room in which Jack slams the door shut and pushes you against it with a searing kiss. His lips are hot against yours, bruising and tasty. His mustache scratches so well against your upper lip that you can’t help the moan that escapes from your mouth to his. 

“Daddy’s gonna take such good care of you,” he says. “Gonna make you sing so sweetly for me.”

“Yes, daddy!” you moan, hands roving over his back, up his neck, underneath his hat and knocking it to the floor with a soft  _ thwack _ . His previously styled hair is now mussed with your clawing and grabbing.

“Is that what you want, darlin’?” His teeth dig painfully into your neck, lips sucking a purpling mark like a brand into your skin. “You want daddy to make you sing?”

“Oh, god, yes! Make me sing!”

His deft fingers pull the straps of your dress down, the silk fabric a harsh contrast to the rough denim of his jeans as his knee rubs against your mound. Lips wrap around your budding nipple, pulling and sucking until the sensation paired with the friction against your clit has you singing for the first of many times this night. 

“That’s it, baby girl, c’mon,” Jack praises, slowing down your climax.

You’re even more flushed than before, bare chest heaving and already slick with sweat.

“That was good, but I know you can do better.”

Jack lifts you into his arms, letting your legs wrap around his waist as he carries you over to your canopied bed, throwing down onto your plush pillows and blankets. Kneeling above you, he removes his jacket, undoes his pretty bowtie and slowly unbuttons each button of his shirt. You lay before him like a meal waiting to be devoured, unable to do anything other than watch with rapt attention as his glorious form is revealed to you. 

He kicks off his shoes as he leans to pull off your heels, letting his hands glide along your calves, up your thighs, teasing the inner, softer parts as he compliments, “These legs, so smooth and supple. Bet they’d feel nice around my head.”

He kisses his way along the inside of your thigh, suckling on the flesh at the apex as he swipes his knuckles up and down. Then he takes his pointer finger, pushing into you only slightly before pulling back out and popping the digit into his mouth. “Fucking delicious, princess. You’re fucking delicious.”

Your face heats up at his constant praise and affection, but soon your whole body is lighting up like instant fire as Jack pushes in all three of his fingers at once. The sensation is overwhelming and not enough all at once. You want more,  _ need  _ more. 

“Who else makes you feel this good?” he asks, grunting at the sound of your gasps filling the empty air. 

“Nobody, just you!”

“Who?”

“Oh, fuck! You, daddy!”

“That’s right, baby girl. Daddy does.” He removes his fingers and you’re about to protest until his mustache is scratching against the flesh of your womanhood as his tongue delves inside your folds. Once his thumb starts circling your clit with just the right amount of pressure, you’re climaxing for a second time and Whiskey doesn’t let up his ministrations. He drags out your high for as long as you’re able to take it, greedily drinking up every last bit of your cum.

He pulls back, grinning up at you like the Cheshire Cat with lust blazing in his dark eyes. “Music to my ears, darlin’. You got one more for daddy?”

All you can do is lazily nod through hooded lashes, watching as he unzips his pants to reveal his hardened cock, glistening with precum and standing tall and girthy. You reach out to touch him, to feel the warmth and stiffness, but he stops you with a hand around your wrist. 

“Next time.” He kisses you deeply, tongue swiping across yours. But then he rolls over onto his back beside you. “I want you to ride me with that pretty, little pussy of yours.”

His vulgar words ignite something in you so you roll over on top of him, knees pressing into your silk sheets. Grasping his cock, you hold it steady as you push yourself down onto him. The stretch is almost burning, but a good kind of burning, and the way he fills you is full and complete.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he grinds out between clenched teeth and a sharp hiss. His hips are trembling beneath you and you’re sure he’s struggling with all of his might not to buck up into you. 

You begin a slow and steady pace, rolling your hips sensually over him and getting used to the feel of him inside of you. Your hands find anchor on his hairless chest, fingernails digging crescent-shapes into his skin as you move faster. His hands find your bouncing breasts, molding and kneading them, rolling your nipples between his fingers. 

“C’mon, baby, you can ride daddy faster than that,” he pushes, holding onto your hips with a bruising grip. 

Regardless of his statement, he thrusts up into you, jolting you out of rhythm and knocking you out of the last of your clinging senses. It hits you differently, better. But you keep going even as he sits up, pumping into you like the lightning crack of his whip. 

“Harder, daddy!”

“You want it harder, baby? I can give you harder.”

You’re screaming his name as he tightens his hold on your hips, pulling you back down onto him roughly as he pushes into you. You feel every inch of him hitting that spot inside of you that brings blinding whiteness over your eyes. Arms wrap around his neck, face falling to his shoulder as your oversensitized cunt brings out one last orgasm.

“That’s it, sugar, you got it. Cum for daddy.”

Tears spill from your eyes as you release around him, the clenching and tightening of your walls bringing Whiskey to his own. His seed spills into you, hot and thick and all of it is  _ so much _ . 

His hand holds your head as you try to regulate your breathing, getting your senses back under control. 

“You okay?” he asks, pecking your cheek with sweet kisses and brushing your hair back from your sticky forehead.

You giggle into his shoulder. “Fantastic.” You lift your head, looking him in the eyes. “How soon is next time gonna be?”

“How long is this gala supposed to last?”

You look towards your alarm clock, grinning. “Another two hours.”

“Oh, daddy’s got plenty of time to make you sing again, baby.”


End file.
